Hell No's And Headphones
by AryaTyrell
Summary: Everyone knows Murphy's got a silver tongue when it comes to arguments, but written essays are his worst nightmare. Enter Freckled Asshole, stage left. (College AU ft. dyslexic Murphy and florist Bellamy)
"Well, personally speaking, I have to say that I absolutely _hate_ it. I mean, the idea that this is some great lyrical _love_ poem is bullshit. It's just this horny guy's poem, a sexually frustrated little freak trying to get some with his mistress by rambling about 'time's winged chariot,' and not realizing that she doesn't want anything to do with him at all. There's nothing even remotely lyrical or romantic, and certainly nothing _erotic_ about this poem at all." Murphy sits back in his chair, twirling his pen in long, lithe fingers. "No wonder his mistress is coy."

"You think Andrew Marvell was unsuccessful in this poem?" asks Professor Jaha, slouching back in his armchair.

"Basically, yes. In this poem, anyway."

"So the voice of the poet and the voice of the poem are one and the same?"

Murphy gives a shrug. "Why shouldn't they be? There's nothing to suggest a distancing device …"

"What do you think, Bellamy?"

When Professor Jaha brings Bellamy into the conversation, Murphy resists the (admittedly childish) urge to roll his eyes and sigh. It doesn't matter how long Murphy spends sitting with a poem, building his argument; you could always count on Bellamy fucking Blake to one-up him every time.

The boy in question plays for time by rubbing his ears, as though his critical analysis powers were somehow located in the lobes and he just needs to warm them up. "I think it's more complicated than that, especially if you place the poem in its historical context …" This time Murphy doesn't resist and he lets out the most obnoxious sigh he's ever given in his life. Blake _always_ brought up 'historical context.' Professor Jaha gives him a look but doesn't say anything; Bellamy continues as though they've never been interrupted. "For a start, there's clearly a strong element of humor here. The use of rhetoric is self-conscious, and in that sense it's sort of like Shakespeare's sonnet one-thirty, 'My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun'... except here the poet's rhetoric gives him a foolish air - the desperation, the extremes to which he goes to persuade his lover to succumb makes him, in all actuality, a comic figure. It's the comedy of sexual frustration and romantic humiliation. It's actually the 'coy mistress,' the object of his unrequited love, who has all the power here …"

"Well, that's a load of crap," Murphy snaps, and Professor Jaha raises his eyebrows at the boy.

"Really, John? I think it's an apt argument."

Murphy rolls his eyes, an _of-course-you-do_ look playing across his features. "The coy mistress has no power, and no personality either, she's just a cipher, a blank, defined solely by her beauty and her unwillingness to have sex with his guy. And the tone isn't comic, or lyrical, or _anything_ \- "

"Actually, I think -" Murphy shoots Monty a withering glare that's supposed to make him wilt, but the boy swallows and presses on: "I think it is a bit lyrical. It's set in iambic tetrameter, which automatically gives it a rhythm right there. I mean, it's not like the poet's stating his intentions crudely, or obviously we would've picked up on that … yes, the poem's about sex, but the speaker neutralizes it by continuously complimenting the mistress, who… "

That's as far as Murphy makes it, and he allows his gaze to drift out the window, if only to keep himself from sniping at Monty. He glances at Bellamy from out of his peripherals: he's such a goody two-shoes, he's actually _writing_ what Monty's saying, like it's _important_ or something.

Murphy doesn't know why he has it out for Bellamy. Maybe it's something to do with how he makes everything look so _easy_ : grades, sports, friends, looks, he had it all. Meanwhile, Murphy can't even fucking _read_ right. When it comes to the poems he has to read for this stupid class, he always has to listen to those overdramatic readings online and draw his arguments from there. He hardly ever marks up his book because, well, he doesn't have to. But still, it's pretty embarrassing to be sitting next to someone like Bellamy or Monty who's highlighted and dog-eared almost every page, while Murphy's copy still looks as pristine as the day he bought it.

Murphy's still brooding over this when the tutorial's over; Bellamy even has the nerve to give him a small smile accompanied by a little wave. Murphy only glares back at him. As everyone else shuffles out of the room, Professor Jaha says:

"Tell me, John, why are you here exactly?"

The question takes the boy by surprise. He stops looking out the window and turns to Professor Jaha.

"Um, tutorial. Two o'clock." Murphy pushes his hair back and checks his watch on his other wrist. "Which is now over." He makes to get up, but Professor Jaha speaks again:

"No, I mean here, in college, reading English. Why are you here?"

Murphy gives a squint of his eyes. "To … learn?"

"Because?"

"It's … valuable?"

Professor Jaha sighs, leans across the tabletop. "John. Your oral arguments are outstanding - they do indeed give me the impression that you're extremely interested in learning the contents of books. Though you do feel … strongly about our selections, you do back up your claims extremely well."

"Thanks …?"

"My concern, John, are your essays."

Murphy's heart drops into his stomach. "Oh." He swallows thickly. "What about them?"

"Frankly, they barely hold to the standards you set orally. There isn't a shred of the insight or mental effort you give in your oral assessments - they're shallow, pious, ill-formed, and stuffed full of cliches that I know you are above." The professor's hands form a little steeple in front of his mouth. "Most of all, I'm just disappointed."

Each word hits Murphy like a stab between his shoulder blades. "Okay … well -"

"I suggest that you seek out a tutor," Professor Jaha calmly interjects. "The top of this class is Bellamy Blake. I've already spoken with him, and he's agreed to take you on. I better be hearing about your progress, John." The professor's already standing, collecting his various folders spread across the table they've been sitting at, but Murphy only stares, openmouthed. The stabs have become bullets, fired one after the other.


End file.
